Snapshots from a London Flat
by hiddenfiresindeed
Summary: A new series of random ficlets, mostly fluff, or at least angst ending in warm-and-fuzzies. I'll add to it whenever my wretched muse allows... John and Sherlock centric.
1. Reminisces

Title: Reminisces  
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John  
Rating: K  
Summary: Post-Reichenbach dreams are unpleasant, and John searches for a way to comfort Sherlock unobtrusively.  
Author's Note: A new series of random ficlets, mostly fluff, or at least angst ending in warm-and-fuzzies. I'll add to it whenever my wretched muse allows...  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Sherlock or BBC.

John drew his legs up closer against the chill of the evening, his body edging slightly nearer to the fire's soothing warmth. A calloused finger slid across the glowing screen, flicking to the next page of his novel. The e-reader was a luxury he appreciated, a gift from his flatmate a month after his birthday had passed, when Sherlock's superior brain had finally registered that birthdays were events not to be forgotten and had hurried to purchase the expensive electronic as his unspoken apology.  
John's eyes had barely scanned the next sentence when the silence of the room was broken by a soft padding of bare feet. Looking up, his eyes met his flatmate's bleary gaze, open dressing gown thrown over bare chest, the limp belt ends trailing behind dragging feet. Sherlock rubbed his eyes with one fist, before plopping himself down in the armchair opposite his friend, curling up with a huff to stare moodily into the flames. John's eyes regarded his friend affectionately. No one could pull off "stroppy toddler" like the famous detective.  
"Can't sleep then?" he asked gently, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His only answer was unintelligible muttering, as Sherlock burrowed further down in the chair, a black look crossing his face.  
John's forehead frowned. The nightmares must have been quiet tonight, because he'd heard no sounds from the bedroom down the corridor. "Sherlock, Moriarty's dead," he reminded him, careful to keep the compassionate pity from his voice, if not from his eyes.  
"I know!" The snapped reply was spoken with too much force, and John subsided back into his chair to let his friend brood. He leaned his head back against the soft cushion of the chair and waited silently for a moment, noting the angry, glowering dark eyes, the long, twitching fingers.  
John closed the case on his e-reader with a sigh and set it aside. He had a wealth of experience in dealing with a petulant Sherlock, and knew this would require his full attention. "Well, guess I'm done for tonight." They sat for several moments in companionable silence, content in each other's company, the dark lines on Sherlock's face gradually lessening as he listened to the even breathing of the doctor, and the occasional pop of the firewood.  
After a quarter of an hour of unbroken quiet, John sensed the inward turmoil still radiating from his friend and shifted in his chair, trying a different approach. "Did I ever tell you, Sherlock," he began, as the detective startled out of his reverie to glance in annoyance at his companion, "about the time my regiment was ambushed while escorting a supply convoy through the Eastern mountain regions?" He knew what bait to use, knew of Sherlock's curiosity about his past in spite of John's reticence on the subject, and now watched in satisfaction as his flatmate's head raised up a degree, unable to keep the flicker of interest from flashing in the cold, cobalt eyes.  
John hid a smile. "It was in the summer of…" his voice trailed on, recounting the memory with less pain then he would have once thought possible, but was rewarded as the look of horror gradually lessened in his dear friend's eyes. Ever the story-teller, John quieted his voice as the tale went on, settling into a low, gentle rhythm of words. Sherlock's body began to uncoil, and the grey eyes slid closed as John continued, until only the furrowed, concentrated brow told the doctor that his friend was still listening. Twenty minutes later, as he drifted from one recounting to the next, John was finally repaid with the sound of a gentle snore. Smiling fondly across at his newly-returned flatmate, he stood and draped a fleecy throw over the long, lanky form of the detective before retiring to his own room upstairs.


	2. Dim Sum

Title: Dim Sum  
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John  
Rating: K  
Summary: A rubbish day at the surgery, and Sherlock is Not. Helping.  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Sherlock or BBC.

The cold, dreary rain began to increase in it's intensity, and John hastened his stride down the sidewalk, anxious for the warmth and comfort of his flat. It had been a rubbish day all around, the overflow of patients in the infirmary causing tempers to flare amongst his colleagues. A tripto the market in the pouring rain did nothing to improve his irritable mood, and John felt justified in stopping for Chinese take-out on the corner before heading for home.  
He stopped in the corridor, shaking large drops out of his eyes, before tramping up the stairs to their lounge, his arms laden with paper bags. Opening the door to their flat, his nose wrinkled instantly at the harsh smell of chemicals that confronted him. Across the way, in the kitchen, Sherlock sat hunched over his chemicals set, deep in an experiment, his deft fingers lifting the burette carefully. Lovely. John stifled a groan and worked his way through the room.  
"Oy, Sherlock, you know you could help with these," he said irritably, hoisting a bag from his hip to the counter top. No answer came from the table, and John rolled his eyes, swiftly putting away the groceries. Pulling the take-out from it's bag, he set out two plates and called over his shoulder to his flatmate. "Sherlock, I've got dinner ready. You need to eat something." Still receiving no response, John shrugged. He wasn't surprised. Sherlock had not had a case for three weeks, and his behavior was becoming increasingly unsociable. It would be a long evening…..  
Striding across the room, John popped a disc into the player and flipped on the telly. The sudden noise finally drew his flatmate out of his Mind Palace with a start, and Sherlock expressed his annoyance with a few choice, snarky words.  
"Shut it, Sherlock," John snapped back, re-entering the kitchen and spooning Szechuan Beef onto his plate. "Leave that dangerous-to-the-human-race experiment, and get some food and join me." The muttering continued, but John heard the chair slide back against the floor. Good. What his friend needed at the moment was a distraction, and John had selected a mind-numbing, throw-back to his childhood for them to to watch. He hoped it would be sufficient.  
Thirty minutes later, John was enjoying what had to be the best movie experience of his life. "What!" the deep, rumbling voice from the other armchair yelled loudly at the telly. "Why would he do that?" Sherlock's dark grey eyes narrowed at the screen. "Surely even his common, everyday brain should realize that it is a simple matter of remotely hacking into and accessing the computer system on the Death Star…"  
John grinned into his Dim Sum. Best. Movie Night. Ever.


	3. Breakfast a la Baker St

Title: Breakfast à la Baker Street  
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John  
Rating: K  
Summary: A study in domesticity... with disastrous results.  
Author's Note: Fluff bordering on crack, and now I have this bizarrely adorable image of Benedict in a ruffly apron, stuck in my brain.  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Sherlock or BBC, which is probably for the best, as the apron would definitely make an appearance in series three.

John opened his eyes slowly and stretched, his still partially asleep brain working out what day it was. Ah, Sunday. Excellent. He needed a bit of a lie-in. Rolling over to the cool side of his pillow, he closed his eyes again, but was disturbed moments later by a loud clanging from below. After waiting several minutes for the sounds to cease, he sighed and rolled out of bed. His therapist had warned him about lounging about too long anyway, had said it wasn't good for him. Splashing a flicker of cold water on his face, he slipped into his dressing gown and lumbered lazily downstairs.  
The first hint that something was wrong was the odd smell that met him as he rounded the staircase and entered the shared lounge. The unenticing odour was coming from the kitchen, where Sherlock busied himself in a drawer of pots and pans, making enough noise to wake every neighbor on the block.  
"Mornin'," John mumbled, sliding into a chair at the table over run by Sherlock's science experiments. He watched his flatmate, suddenly wary, and reached out quickly to cover his ears as another deafening noise rang around the room. "Sherlock! _What_ are you doing?"  
"I'm making breakfast," the detective sniffed loftily, pausing in his rummaging to look up at his friend. "In case you have forgotten, John, our dear Mrs. Hudson has gone to visit a friend. Aha!" He found the fryer he was looking for, and John watched in disbelief as the man prepared to cook.  
"Um, Sherlock," he interrupted, standing to peer in the iron pan, "that's non-stick spray, mate; it's supposed to _coat_ the bottom of the pan. I'm fairly certain it's not supposed to pool in a layer."  
Sherlock stepped across the room to peer over John's shoulder, his breath wisping past John's ear. "Hmm. Well, I don't much fancy a strenuous wash-up afterwards, and besides, the combination of chemicals in the cooking spray will hardly be harmful in that quantity." He darted away, and John shook his head skeptically, returning to the table. Picking up the paper, he kept one eye on the print, and one eye on Sherlock as his flatmate reached for the bowl of eggs behind the container of toes in the refrigerator. The detective cracked the first egg against the edge of the ceramic bowl and John heard a sloshing plop. "Oh," sounded dismally from across the room. Another crack. Then another. "Bloody eggs…" Sherlock mumbled, and John bent his head to choke down a snort of laughter.  
After wasting eight eggs, Sherlock finally managed to get a passable amount of egg into the frying pan. Poking experimentally at the mixture with a wooden spoon, he raised his eyes. "You won't mind a bit of shell, will you, John? Extra protein and all that…."  
John closed his eyes, breathing a loud puff through his nose. The detective proceeded to open the refrigerator door again, this time foraging for the package of bacon. His friend watched in growing alarm. "Um, Sherlock, I think we can dispense with a full breakfast this morning-"  
"Nonsense. Besides, I can heat these in the microwave," the other man said airily, while removing the container of liquefying eyes. "Yes, beans. Right." He removed a can from the cupboard and dumped the contents into a pot.  
John tried once more. "Sherlock," he began gently, "why don't we just run over to the bakery next door and pick up a pasty?" He tried not to look hopeful.  
Sherlock halted in the midst of his preparations to turn his piercing grey eyes full on his friend. "John," he admonished kindly but contemptuously, "if Ordinary People can manage this every morning, then I should be _spectacular_ at it." He moved to set a plate at John's elbow with a flourish.  
John looked down at the platter in front of him, luke-warm beans running to mingle with glutinous, shell-littered eggs, with a side of darkly burnt bacon strips. At a loss for words, he glanced back up into Sherlock's proudly expectant face, and sighed, picking up his fork. Love was expressed in many different ways, however bizarre, he reflected, and Love sometimes required small sacrifices. Besides, he mused, there were always the antacids in the kitchen first aid kit.


	4. Where Angels Fear To Tread

Title: Where Angels Fear to Tread  
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John and Lestrade  
Rating: K  
Warnings/Spoilers: Warnings for non-slashy naked!Sherlock. I'm not responsible for any mental imagery this one-shot may produce :D  
Summary: Lestrade drops by Baker Street, and gets an eye- and earful.  
Author's Note: My sister and I both have a slight, we-still-act-like-teenagers crush on Rupert Graves. Our grandmother's Lestrade did NOT look like that. He was a brilliant bit of casting.  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Sherlock Holmes or BBC, or Benedict and Martin ... although like most women in the world, I wouldn't mind holding the title deed to either of those boys!

John sat at the kitchen table and took a sip of his coffee with a moan of pleasure, barely registering the door ring from below. They had just had five days of intense sleuthing work, and last night had been the first full sleep in a week. Eyeing his mug with more love in his eyes than his last girlfriend had _ever_ seen, John glanced over to see a figure walking up the stairs.  
"Greg!" he greeted, standing and motioning the inspector into their flat.  
"Mornin', John," the man smiled back. "I know you've rather used up lately, but this just came in, and it's right up his area..."  
John sighed in resignation. "Have a seat, and help yourself to some coffee," he waved towards the kitchen, "and I'll try to wake His Majesty up."  
Lestrade settled into a chair, and listened to the doctor's soft tread down the corridor, only to jump a moment later as a loud pounding came from down the hall.  
"Sherlock! Oy, Sherlock, wake up." A click of the door, and John's voice softened only slightly. "Come on, mate, Lestrade's in the kitchen waiting for you."  
A loud growl, intermixed with language Sherlock must have picked up from the London criminal class, made the inspector snicker into his cup. A moment later, John rejoined him. "He'll be along in a minute," he said, moving to the stovetop. "Can I fix you an egg?"  
"No, thanks, I've had my breakfast." He watched the doctor's swift movements around the kitchen, and began to comment, when a loud bellow sounded from the room down the hall.  
"John!" the deep voice rumbled. "I don't have any fresh towels." A rapid pattering of feet down the corridor, and John rolled his eyes. "John!"  
"There are clean towels folded on the end of the sofa," John called back. "I didn't have time to put them away, as you dragged me down to the South End after that bloody counterfeiter..." John's voice trailed off as he noticed Lestrade's open mouth and bulging eyes. Glancing up, John held back a laugh. "Hey, Sherlock? We _do_ have a guest - at least put on a sheet..."  
More grumbling filtered back down the hall, and a door slammed shut. John turned back to the inspector. "Sorry 'bout that; modesty is apparently something he deleted at some point." He looked at Lestrade's still-pink cheeks and embarrassed expression, and shrugged. "You get used to it after a while. Can I get you more coffee?"  
A short time later, an irritable detective entered the kitchen, still grumbling about fresh linen. He took a seat and picked up the paper, without even bothering to acknowledge the DI's presence.  
John moved to set a steaming cup at Sherlock's elbow. "You know, if we're running short, you _could_ take care of the laundry yourself..." Sherlock snorted and John slammed the cream down on the table. "Well, I'm just telling you now, Mrs. Hudson is going away on holiday next week, and I'm _not_ washing up your dirty socks and pants."  
He turned away, and Lestrade heard an ominously muttered, "We'll see about that," from behind the paper. The DI inhaled too much of the scalding liquid he was sipping, and sputtered, watching the two flatmates in wary fascination.  
John looked up from the stove, interrupting the inspector as Sherlock finally allowed him to give details of the case. "I suppose you won't be wanting breakfast, then?" John asked, spooning his own eggs onto a plate.  
"No!" came the answer, sharp and curt, and Lestrade smirked as the ever-patient doctor looked about half a second away from throttling his petulant flatmate.  
Lestrade finished stating the facts of the case, and watched the private detective expectantly, the grey eyes out if focus, and a long finger stroking his upper lip unconsciously, as the Great Brain sorted and discarded one theory after another. John closed the refrigerator door and walked over to the table with a glass of orange juice, placing it directly in the detective's hand. "Here, drink that, Sherlock, you'll need the sugar if we're going to be out all day."  
His flatmate drained the glass absently, his mind still whirling in an almost audible manner. Abruptly, the cobalt eyes came back into focus, and he pushed away from the table. "I need to see the house. Come on, John, we have work to do." Dashing from the room, Sherlock slipped the items he would need into the pockets of his ridiculous coat, and hurried to the door, stopping precipitously with his hand on the door handle, as if a new thought suddenly intruded his racing mind.  
"It's a bit cold out, John," he glanced back, "and you've been sniffling for days. You'd better wear a scarf," John's look of surprise was swiftly followed by a flitting, grateful expression, before he turned back to add the necessary accessory. The two men started down the staircase, Sherlock mumbling something under his breath.  
"I'm not wearing the hat, Sherlock." John's reply floated back up the stairs clearly.  
"But it's an _Ear Hat_, John," the detective's voice cajoled. "It will keep your ears warm."  
"I'M NOT WEARING THE HAT, SHERLOCK!" the heated reply sounded loudly, and remnants of the bickering continued from down below.  
Lestrade stood on the landing, staring after the two in stunned silence, until a bellowed, "Come along, Lestrade!" broke his reverie. He blinked slowly. The boys at the 'Yard had had numerous water-cooler discussions about how such a mis-matched duo could possibly function, and after knowing them for two years, he was no nearer the truth, and probably never would be. He only knew that, that morning, he had been given a glimpse of where angels fear to tread.


End file.
